


Innocence

by fiercynn



Category: History Boys (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:07:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiercynn/pseuds/fiercynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Limitations!" Scripps bursts out. "These aren't fucking limitations, these are lies, out and out lies."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Innocence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [truly_bohemian](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=truly_bohemian).



> WWI AU, written for the drinkswithdakin 2007 holiday fic exchange, originally posted [here](http://drinkswithdakin.livejournal.com/48580.html).
> 
> Sources on the war and the film _The Battle of the Somme_ are from Wikipedia. Info on the press during WWI and Phil Gibbons, the war correspondent from are at [Mass Politics and the Western Front](http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/britain_wwone/war_media_01.shtml) by Dr. Stephen Badsey.

_June 29, 1916_

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_Wrote you a letter a few days ago, I know, but we're going on the offensive again tomorrow. You know I love you and I'm not likely to be morbid, so I won't go into detail or anything but I didn't have anything else to do but write. There's always a hazy tension in the air during times like this – some people gossip and scurry around, some are at complete peace, and some are in the middle, like me._

_Honestly I can't remember what I thought it would be like, not just the time before battle, I mean, but this, everything about it. I tried not to have any illusions about the glory of war – after all, we all know when Lord Kitchener's call for recruits came up I didn't join out of supreme love for our empire or anything so romantic. But somehow living in Sheffield, going to school, university, everything instilled a sense of duty in me. I suppose it's the way you brought me up as well. Are you proud? You say you are, and I know that you're proud of _me_ and what I'm doing, but I could never tell if you were proud that your guidance brought me up to do the things I do and be the person I am. You were proud of Oxford, yes. I was as well, so there's no surprise. But sometimes here – taking orders all the time, following such rigid discipline as if it's completely natural, and following the love of God and King even further – it makes me wonder how free we really are to make such choices, because all our experiences and upbringing determine how our souls work to make such decisions._

_Perhaps you'll say I'm blaspheming. I don't know at this point. So many actions seem based on previous actions and reactions, like this whole war, that I have to believe it's so for people too. And I don't regret it, I just wonder. And I wonder how it leads us to do the right thing, especially when everyone's knowledge of this war is so narrow and specific. Maybe that's better than being overwhelmed by generalities, but it would be nice to have a larger scope, to at least know what I'm fighting for. I didn't expect a crusade against evil but I hope to God that _we_ are somehow not the evil, and I don't have enough faith to believe it blindly._

_I have grown too much the scholar in my Oxford years, haven't I? Don't know if I'll ever get to see the place again. But I said I wouldn't be morbid, or try to predict anything. Also, don't worry just because of what I say in a letter – sometimes I inflict all my heaviest thoughts and despairs on you because I have nowhere else to turn, and then the mood passes and I regret sending them, so rest assured that I am not constantly in turmoil. As always, all my love to you and all the family_

_James Lockwood  
Tyneside Irish Brigade  
34th Division_

*

"I didn't come out here to write this kind of shit," says Scripps harshly.

Gibbs looks at him, his eyebrows raised and his expression sardonic, and Scripps almost wants to punch him. "Yes, you did," he says, his tone mild but knowing. "You knew how the government worked even before you started at the _Mail_ – benefit of an Oxford education – and you knew how frightened the government has always been of us, the press. Rightfully so, I should say. Of course there would be limitations on a battle front."

"Limitations!" Scripps bursts out. "These aren't fucking _limitations_, Phil, these are lies, out and out lies."

Gibbs turns away slightly, looking at some pictures laid out on his cot. The thing is, Scripps can tell that he's actually offended by the comment, as if he believes it's inaccurate and is some kind of judgment on his reporting. Which is even more unbearable, seeing how removed this situation is from one person, from Gibbs. "I've always tried to be as honest as I can," he says after a moment, "and I think for the most part I've succeeded. And when I haven't, it's always been with the best intentions. Not every grisly piece of news needs to make it back, and you know that. At least I can sleep at night knowing that the families of soldiers don't know the gruesome details of their deaths."

Scripps doesn't want to fight; that's not the point. And it's true that Gibbs has been here longer than he has – one of the first journalists picked to be a correspondent on the Western Front, a great honor, and one that most of his readers would says he's fulfilled.

But it also means that he's become numbed to the routine of working out here, to the constant military presence and escorts by soldiers, to the clearly prepared scenes that they are shown and photographs they are given, to the "suggestions" from the generals, and then even later to the blatant censorship when they try to go to press. To work this long he would have tried to outwit the system but doubtless he would have fallen under it to even some extent. Which is partly what Scripps is afraid of for himself.

He sighs, frustrated. He's supposed to be good with words, and yet he can't express his feelings in a way that will make any sense to Gibbs. It's not just that the false reporting gives misinformation to the public back home. It's also that this kind of lying is in itself corruptive and dangerous, bringing in dangerous elements of illusion in a world that right now needs to be starkly real. That's why Scripps became a journalist, not to spin his words into a witty eloquent web to grace the pages of his paper, but to use his skills to retell the truth in places and ways that it hasn't been told. And also for the future – to look back on these manipulations and deceits and see the hypocrisy of the past, that, that would be crushing.

The battle here at the Somme began two weeks ago. For a month before that, all the correspondents had been gathered and "briefed", not on the military operations but on the line that the press was intended to take. Scripps can still hear it ringing in his head, the monotonous drone of platitudes and official talk by weary generals, also chained by duty but no less guilty for it.

And then the battle – it almost makes Scripps sick to realize that he was _there_, there but unable to see how it really was. A victory, they all said. More like the bloodiest fucking day any officer can remember. He can hardly stand himself.

It's times like these especially, when he's bleeding with shame and guilt, that he longs for his friends – Dakin who would tell him not to mope and moan and just fight it better next time, and Posner who would understand. And the others, too, of course – he wonders where they are, how many of them may be embroiled in similar or worse situations, how many know the truth about these days and how many don't. He'd like to think that they were all clear-sighted and strong-willed, and that was part of what brought them together, but it's possible, more than possible, that they too have fallen into this trap. After all, he thinks, who hasn't?

*

Posner wakes up shivering.

Two days ago he saw it, the movie, _The Battle of the Somme_, and he still can't get it out of his head. It played in flickering stutters in his head during the night, snapshots and broken up film, a nightmare of a movie instead of a movie-like nightmare. He can't believe that everyone else in the world doesn't feel the same way. He came out of the theater in a shock, the gruesome images still frozen in his consciousness, while the rest of Britain cheered at the victory and rejoiced in the aim of the battle, not the method. He knows that more people will enlist because of it, more wide-eyed young boys and men whose lives will be wasted, and the vicious cycle will continue.

It's not just that it's about death and destruction, and that such things repulse Posner. It's also that his friends are out there, everyone in the world is out there, and yet the people at home all care more about victory. Maybe Posner's too disillusioned, since he's a small Jew who - well, has certain proclivities that are not announced to the rest of the world, and for a reason; maybe he's too individualistic in his judgment.

He tosses and turns in bed, trying to think about tomorrow's lesson, but only thinking of rhythmic marching and haunting scenes of glory that are all the more frightening in how effective and compelling they are. By God he's being clinical about this. It is somehow terrible, though, to feel yourself being seduced by violence, no matter how honorable.

Maybe - maybe the naivety about winning is more than just denial, a defense mechanism that the rest of the public uses to cope. Maybe there's some truth in it - knowing that all this misery is worth something, and people have to think and look forward when they've lost something because there's never any use dwelling in the past, no matter how much a historian would like to think so. After all, there's a strange beauty in the silent battle scenes, a hidden order among the chaos.

If anything, Posner's glad that it was shown at all, to show the truth. It's the reaction that scares him more, not the movie, because now that this war is happening someone needs to broadcast it out.

And - he needs to stop thinking about the possibility that the war would not have started in the first place. That's foolish, and more importantly useless. He can sit and read poetry and feel sad about it, but it doesn't make it any better, only less justified. That's not how he was brought up to deal with adversity.

He misses Scripps and Akthar, and even the rest. They're all involved somehow, Akthar a doctor somewhere in Belgium, Scripps a high-profile correspondent, and so on. He misses them, individually, but even now with the haze of dawn it's all starting to meld together, his caring for his friends becoming one giant mix of compassion that moves him forward instead of keeping him stagnant or worse, backwards, where he was likely to go in the first place. He misses them, yes. There's no mystery or complication about that. And yet he wants, needs, to do something, to turn that compassion into companionship, to let himself be seduced by the rising waves because they are undeniably beautiful and in a strange way, comforting.

In the morning, before school, he puts his name down to enlist.


End file.
